You thought you were being discreet. You weren’t. And it all falls apart with a discovery you can’t explain away: worn pantyhose hidden in your desk. Not clean. Not forgotten. Very clearly used. And unfortunately for you, they belong to the one person in the office you absolutely should not have crossed. She pieces it all together calmly, professionally, and with growing amusement: the errands, the boots, the hours she’s spent running around exactly how you asked. Suddenly it’s obvious—you didn’t want a secretary. You wanted a scent source. And you were sloppy enough to get caught. What follows isn’t a reprimand—it’s a renegotiation. And by the end, the hierarchy is very clear: you don’t employ her anymore, you fund her. And you’ll keep doing it—because you can’t stop yourself.
